Dead to Begin With (A Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series, Book 1) Read online

  Coming home can be murder

  Vicky Simmons is ready for the simple life. She’s ready to trade in London for a slower pace by opening a British Country Gift Shop in her old hometown on the coast of Maine. Little does she know a few old faces are back in Glen Cove, including unrequited teenage crush, Michael Danning, having taken over the local Gazette and looking better than ever.

  All is looking rosy until Vicky finds herself face-to-face with a dead body and Michael is the prime suspect. When the sheriff links the motive for murder to the unsolved disappearance of a teenage girl twenty years ago, Vicky must turn amateur sleuth. She’ll stop at nothing to save Michael…and unmask the real killer!

  Available from Vivian Conroy

  A Country Gift Shop Mystery series

  Dead to Begin with

  Coming soon:

  Grand Prize: Murder!

  A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

  A Proposal to Die For

  Diamonds of Death

  Deadly Treasures

  Dead to Begin with

  Vivian Conroy

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  VIVIAN CONROY

  discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favorite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own missing heirs and priceless artifacts. Discover the glamour and secrets of the roaring twenties in Vivian's Lady Alkmene Callender Mysteries and open up shop, with murder in the mix, in the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries. For news on the latest releases, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Extract

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

  A special thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian and her team for embracing fictional Glen Cove with all its human and canine inhabitants, and to the design team for the evocative cover with the coastal feel.

  Chapter One

  Vicky Simmons tiptoed to the archway leading into the living room area and listened to her mother’s voice coming from the den. “You don’t say. When did you see that?”

  Vicky grinned to herself. As the call had ended the big welcome-home breakfast prematurely, she had already suspected it came from one of her mother’s informers.

  ‘Informer’ was the right word as Glen Cove’s jungle drum was more reliable than any other network could ever be. But Claire Simmons would never admit to the insatiable curiosity of her circle of friends. Her favorite defense was: “I’m not nosy; I just like to know things.”

  What Claire wanted to know most right now was what her daughter would be doing with her time now that she was back in town and had to make a living outside of her established foreign correspondent career. The welcome-home breakfast had been set up solely to quiz Vicky about this topic, but knowing every peep she said would travel far and wide, Vicky had dodged all her mother’s questions.

  She did want to share her big plans with her mother of course, but only after she had made sure it would work out. She had to see the property she had cast her eye on in person. The real estate agent had sung its praises over the phone, but then that was his job. When viewed in real life, the property might turn out to be too big for a gift shop, or in need of substantial changes to make it suitable for the classic feel Vicky had in mind. She did have some savings left from all those years in London, but she didn’t intend to spend them right away on repairs and adjustments.

  Grabbing a pen from the basket on the sink, she scribbled on a scrap: Gone to get some groceries. V. She stuck the note to her mother’s fridge with a Welcome to Glen Cove magnet. Of course the magnet had waves and gulls and a lighthouse. Everything in Glen Cove was sea-orientated: seafood restaurants, boat rentals, souvenir shops brimming with shell-decorated photo frames and postcards of the harbor with all the fishing boats. Vicky’s gift shop wouldn’t sell any of that. It would focus on bringing a British touch to life, be it through exclusive home decoration articles, china, clothing, books or tea. It would fill a niche.

  At least that was what Vicky had told herself when she had thought up the idea in the comfort of her London pad. She had made sketches of what her store would look like, inside and out, had written long lists of the products she might sell, had visited websites of potential suppliers. She had even already ordered a set of china with rosebud décor, because she had been so certain she could sell it either way.

  Every step had fed the fire inside, even the little setbacks of estimating costs and hearing from suppliers they were reluctant to deliver to someone whose name was not established. That only made it a challenge, and challenges were fun. She had missed them as she had settled into the routine of writing her successful travel columns. Ten years had about exhausted every wedding venue and secret hideaway anyway.

  And life began at forty, right?

  Just as her hand was on the back door handle, a voice behind her back said, “Wait, I’ll come with you. I want to show you some changes in town.”

  Vicky froze, surprised that Claire had resurfaced so soon. “I thought it was Pam on the line.”

  “Had to go baby-sit her granddaughter. She only called to say Roberts put his place up for sale. The next to leave. This town is drying up.” The sadness in Claire’s voice could not be missed.

  Vicky swallowed. In summer when the tourists flooded in, the town flourished, presenting that postcard idyll holidaymakers longed for. It was like the incoming tide, bringing unsuspected riches to the shore. But in fall the tide became outgoing as the ocean that had lured the tourists now drove them away, cold gusts of wind whipping the sharp sand across the deserted beach and even into the windowsills of cottages that were no longer let.

  Winter months were dark and depressing when the bell over your store door didn’t ring once in a whole day.

  It was possible to stay afloat as a store owner if you had a second source of income, from fishing for instance. If you had to live off the store alone, it was harder. Especially if the store concept you wanted was something quite new for the town. It could become a major hit or a terrible disaster. That latter possibility stared Vicky in the face. As she had given up on her life in London, her career, her friends, there was no way back either.

  Claire came up to her. “Come on, Coco.”

  Nails scratched on the floorboards, and a cuddly white bichon frise ran past Claire up to Vicky, whining for a pat. Vicky smiled as she leaned down to scratch the doggy behind the ears. Her shoe-box apartment hadn’t allowed her to have pets. Here she intended to take full advantage of the nearness o
f her mother’s beloved lapdogs. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”

  “On his walk.”

  “His begging tour, you mean.” Mr. Pug always took a morning stroll on his own, just down the road and back, around the time when people went to their mailboxes or left for shopping. His cute black face usually persuaded them to give him a cookie or another snack.

  “He likes the good life.” Claire leaned down with the leash in her hand. “Come here, Coco; be a sweet girl now.”

  With a playful yap the dog jumped just out of Claire’s reach.

  Claire sighed. “Stand still now, girl. Come on.”

  “Let me do that,” Vicky said, trying to pull the leash from her mother’s hand. Coco could be just like a naughty toddler staying out of reach.

  “I can put my own dog on the leash,” Claire protested, tearing the leash away and leaning even further to clip it onto Coco’s collar. “Turning seventy doesn’t make one weak or senile.”

  Vicky held her breath, worried that the playful dog would scoot away again and Claire would hurt her back. Her mother had suffered from joint trouble for some time now, although in her letters she had always pretended everything was fine. But Vicky had seen the tightness in her mother’s facial muscles this morning as she had struggled to get the lid off the tin with biscuits.

  “There.” Claire put the leash in place and straightened up with a satisfied grunt. She cast Vicky a glance. “That retirement home Emma was raving about doesn’t even allow pets.”

  “I didn’t know Emma had any pets,” Vicky said innocently, although she knew full well what her mother was driving at. Ever since Vicky had told Claire she was coming home, Claire was convinced it was a conspiracy to get her out of her cottage and her independent life and into a retirement home. The idea of losing her freedom, and her dogs, set her mother’s blood on fire. But Claire did need someone to be close to her and cater discreetly to her needs. Board up the cottage windows when a storm was about to blow in, get an old photo album out of the attic. Or just spend a night together watching Claire’s favorite gardening show. But if Vicky really wanted to help her, everything would have to be done in a way that made Claire feel like she was still doing everything on her own.

  “There is Mr. Pug now,” Vicky said quickly and opened the back door to meet the dog halfway along the driveway. She squatted and patted his sturdy body. Mr. Pug grunted in satisfaction, tilting his face up to her. The crumbs around his mouth looked a lot like blueberry muffin.

  Just a few feet away from them the Glen Cove Gazette rested in the grass, thrown there by the newspaper boy who never bothered to get off his bike. The whole front page seemed to be taken up by a photograph of a stunningly beautiful woman.

  A woman who seemed somehow familiar.

  “Celine…” Vicky said under her breath.

  A chill went up her spine, and she scrambled to her feet. Snatching the newspaper up from the grass, her hands began to tremble. She stared into those familiar eyes. It was a stunning portrait of the girl who had gone missing over twenty years ago, but somehow more mature, even more commanding in her stark classic beauty. The blonde hair so soft around her face, the eyes a little sad, boring their way straight into the beholder’s heart.

  Celine Dobbs’ disappearance had been a life-changing event for the entire town. Also for Vicky herself. Looking out of her window at night seeing the searchlights on the beach where workers combed the caves for a dead body…

  Somehow her hometown hadn’t felt the same anymore. Perhaps that had even pushed her to become a foreign correspondent and leave the States altogether. Leave behind a confusing time of insecurity for a whole new life far away. First in Switzerland, then in the UK.

  Frowning, Vicky read the thick black letters above the photograph: Missing girl’s twin: Reopen case.

  So it was not Celine in the picture.

  No, of course not, how could it have been? Celine had vanished at nineteen. This woman was of Vicky’s own age, but still with that ageless beauty that had made the Dobbs twins legendary in the area. This had to be…

  Vicky dug through her memories. What had Celine’s sister been called?

  Diane?

  Yes, her name was in the piece below. Diane Dobbs.

  Vicky held the paper up to Claire. “Didn’t Diane leave for Europe to study there?”

  Claire nodded. “Got married there, has kids.”

  Vicky ignored her mother’s reference to her favorite topic of marriage and babies and asked, “Why would she suddenly want to revisit the little town where her family was torn apart? Her likeness to her vanished sister will cause a stir.”

  “A sensation is more like it, and that’s exactly what they want.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest, her chin up in a challenging gesture.

  “They?” Vicky queried. She studied the large photograph again. “Is Diane doing this for her parents? I suppose it doesn’t get any easier to live with when people get older, have time on their hands to think about it.”

  She searched the facial expression, the eyes, of the woman in the photograph as if those could give away the reasons for this rather desperate action. After all, after so long a time all evidence, if there had been any, had to be gone.

  Did Diane really think people would remember something? That someone would suddenly come forward with new information to support her request to reopen the case?

  Scanning the article to look for the vital paragraph on what kind of new information was wanted, Vicky’s gaze descended on the byline.

  Interview by Michael Danning.

  Another shock went through her, worse almost than the one before. “Michael Danning wrote this article?” Had he visited Diane in Europe?

  No, this picture was taken in Glen Cove. Vicky recognized the iconic lighthouse in the background.

  Claire huffed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know he was back in town.”

  “Michael back in town? Here in Glen Cove? Why would he come back here when…”

  “When we all know he abducted and killed Celine.” Claire leaned back on her heels. Her prim nod underlined her harsh words.

  Vicky shuddered at the thought such talk would get around town. “Mom, you can’t call someone an abductor or a killer before he is actually convicted. And even then people do get convicted for crimes they didn’t commit.”

  Vicky clutched the paper. Michael’s fate if he had ever been forced to go to trial had been on her mind every now and then over the years. When a story hit the news about someone getting accused of a crime and trying to clear his or her name. Or when a story hit about someone having spent time in jail and then the true culprit getting arrested, based on DNA evidence for instance. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be locked up and know you were innocent but had no way of ever proving it.

  She said with difficulty, “A lot of people worked hard at the time to make sure Michael got smeared, but there was never enough evidence to take the case to trial.”

  “Because there was no body found.” Claire held her gaze. “That was Danning’s smartest move. They couldn’t prove murder, as they could never establish Celine did die. But how could she still be alive? Do you believe a daughter is so heartless she would never let her parents know what happened to her? That she is just living her life someplace not caring for how her own family feels?”

  Vicky pursed her lips. It didn’t seem likely.

  Claire said, “You only came back here to see Michael Danning again. I knew from the moment you told me about your return.”

  Vicky tried to scoff. “I had no idea he was out here. You sure didn’t tell me, and who else would have? How long has he been here anyway? He and Diane? All those times we talked on the phone or you wrote to me, and not a word about either of them.”

  “Diane hasn’t been here long,” Claire protested.

  “That’s not the point,” Vicky said. “You even called me to tell me a neighbor painted his garden gate yellow.”

  “Canary yellow. Qui
te hard on the eyes.”

  “Mom! Celine’s disappearance is the biggest thing that ever happened in Glen Cove. Why would your friends not talk about it? Pam just called to say Roberts is selling his place. She must also have called to tell you about Michael’s return, Diane’s, and this whole thing about the disappearance case being reopened, right?” Vicky tapped on the paper’s headline. “You knew and yet you never mentioned it to me.”

  Anger rushed through her, pushing her happy expectations for her gift shop away. How could her mother have stayed silent about something as important as this?

  “Reopening the case, hah!” Claire grimaced. “That’s just what Michael Danning is printing in that paper of his. It’s what the both of them want, not what will happen.”

  Vicky tilted her head. Her mother’s tone intrigued her. “How can you be so sure?”

  Claire marched to the gate. “They should have left it alone. Everybody had forgotten about it. We don’t want it all dragged up again.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “You were questioned by the police at the time. My only daughter, questioned by the police.” The indignation was thick in her voice like it had been a personal slight she couldn’t forget.

  “Everybody in college was questioned,” Vicky protested. “It had nothing to do with me personally. They were just trying to find clues to that mystery man Celine was allegedly meeting. But nobody had ever seen him or could give a clear description of him.”

  “Because he doesn’t exist. He was just some fabrication of Danning’s to shift the blame. He killed Celine.”

  “You don’t know that so please stop saying it.”

  Claire continued as if she had not heard Vicky’s protestations, “Now that you have left London behind and come to live here for good, you will go work at the Gazette. What else would you do with your time? You’re a reporter, a good one; you love your work. You’re not going to sit on your hands. You’re not going to Monday afternoon bingo or whatever else they think up around here for people who have nothing to do all day long.”Claire’s hand tightened on the gate. “You’re young and ambitious. You can’t fool me that you suddenly want to do something else, outside of the reporting world. No, this was all a setup from the start. You’re on your way now to the Gazette’s building, to see Michael Danning about freelance assignments. Or maybe even about a part-time job there? You have enough experience; he might take you on for that. But I’m telling you it’s a bad idea. That paper is dead, has been for ages. And with him in charge, people won’t touch it for sure. No matter what he comes up with for a cheap headline. They all know about him.”